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Surrounding the most inner beauty of the set of Camp Wawanakwa, is, the fictional city of Las Ferra, which, is a rough, tough environment, with plenty of gang run opportunities. With Total Drama finally outliving it's usefulness, Chris McLean and his loyal assistant, Chef Hatchet, have officially been dropped from the show, and find themselves on the sides of the streets. To fulfill his dream of fame, he has to make himself known, and to do this, he's attempting to create another organization in the circulation of crime in the city, in his goal to control it all, be rich, and take the others out, all while being a loyal drug and weapons distributer. With the aid of some cast members living in the area, McLean hopes to fulfill this goal, and earn his repuatation, without the police ever finding out about him. This is war. Heck, this is Drama. Chapter One: Interview "Interview at eight thirty-five, for a Christopher McLean?" A woman, in a typical business outfit, holding a suitcase, and adjusting her sunglasses, as the moonlight flashed to her brown hair, tied into a ponytail, giving it a glowing effect. She opened a door, flicked on the light switch, and begun to make herself at ease with the office, via placing down the suitcase, opening it up, and relaxing on the chair before her. "Please, take your seat, Mr. McLean." Chris McLean eagerly stood up, leaving behind Chef Hatchet, who sat on the chairs outside of the office, went inside, and closed the door behind him, only to sit on the sait opposite to the desk. "Uh, hi, don't you look familiar. Weren't you, one of those, kids, from a few seasons back?" The woman folded her arms, rolling her eyes, and fakely smiled, "That is not relevant to this discussion. So, what are you here for, Mr. McLean? Please make this quick, it's a busy night, and I have multiple clients after you." "So, Courtney, I mean, Ms. Smith, I was attempting to get back on air with another season of Total Drama, with an already pre-recorded season, and a set winner eagerly, but furiously awaiting their cash, but, Fresh TV cut the funding for the show, slid it off the air due to lack of ratings, which is obviously bullcrap as you know, and, I don't have the funds to just, hand over a million dollars to a wretched teenager." Chris slammed his arms on the table, out of fury. "Now, I'm getting sued because of it, they could've told me before! So, what can you do about it?" Courtney Smith chuckled, and seemed to be happy of the sitaution infront of her. "Truthfully, I am quite happy about this news, and I am ecstatic that it is finally off the air, as you totally had it coming, and cheated me out of a million. But, do you have a copy on your contract in front of you? I'm going to need it." Chris McLean pulled out a contract from his bag, and handed it to her, "Sure thing, Miss C.I.T. Ah, just being here reminds me of the classic days of Camp Wawanakwa." "Seriously, shut the hell up, if you want my help, in which I am reluctant, yet legally binded to do, you can sit here, do nothing, and wait for five minutes, while I go over what I need to go over, or god help me will I get you out of here, stating that you were trying to sexually harass me." Courtney smirked, and Chris shut his trap. "Thank you.' She pulled the contract from him, and began to observe it, page by page. "I need to go to the bathroom," Chris McLean stood up, nervously. Courtney instructed him to the location, "Exit out of my office, and it's your third door, to the left. Please, take your time, because it'll take me about another couple of minutes or so to go through this all." Chris McLean left the room, and Courtney sighed, in exhaustion. "What a fucking asshole, I can't believe I'm being forced to do this for him, but, I have to. I swear to god, he better not get out of this easy. My job sucks." The ex-host of television reality shows, specifically Total Drama, walked by Chef Hatchet, sighing, and sat next to him. "Oh, Chef, I really hope this works out. If not, I could lose everything just to pay for that stupid, little, teenage, jerk! What a self-centered, ignorant, greedy, douche." Chef Hatchet shrugged, "To be honest, that kind of sounds like you. But anyway, it doesn't really affect me, so, good luck, hahaha." "Chef, if we lose this, you also won't get your paycheck!" Chris McLean shouted to him, depressed. "Ugh, how could they do this? So what, Total Drama may have lost about a few million fans, but still, it's a hit, there's websites of it everywhere, like encyclopedias, and roleplays... Like, nothing else has this fanbase! They have to work this out, they just, have to!" Chef Hatchet grunted, as memories flashed back into his mind. "My paycheck... I haven't seen that thing since that stupid film lot season, oh, we better get this..." Chris McLean added onto that, in a very non-reassuring way, "Well, your paycheck can wait, because I have to throw out a one million dollar check, which could've been used to pamper myself with gloriously. But no, some little moron has to have it. Ugh, Courtney better get this right." Suddenly, Courtney Smith called out to the client, "Mr. McLean, please enter the office as soon as possible, take a seat, so we can discuss your options, hurry, please. This case is not what I'd like to waste my precious time on doing. Ugh. Why do you have to schedule the god damn day before, when I already had plans, seriously." "Well, that's my cue, let's hope for the best." Chris McLean stood up, and re-entered the office, taking his seat, sighing, and smiling. "So, what have you got for me, Court?" "I said, once again, you do not refer to me as that, I am professionally known as either 'Courtney Smith', or 'Ms Smith', alright." Courtney grunted, folding her arms, and then raised the contract, which had certain areas highlighted. "Secondly, it's not looking too good in your eyes. Did you even read this thing? It says that they can cancel the show, and drop funding for it at any time, and the host is completely responsible for the payments of the winner. So, basically, you're screwed, you've got a month to supply the winner with a million dollars, or you will lose pretty much everything, and if everything you have can't pay for it, it's imprisonment. Good luck, McLean." Chris McLean stood up, completely shocked. "What the hell kind of crap is that? Fresh TV, ugh, why? Why? Those cheaters, ugh, where am I going to get a million dollars." Courtney folded her arms, "I wouldn't understand why you're complaining, well, other than your stupidity. I contacted Fresh TV Studios, and it appears that they have sent you numerous letters and emails about the cancellation of the series. Do you check your mail, or, email?" He grunted, "Ugh, I always thought all of that was fanmail." "Ok, so, I've got a solution." Courtney smiled, "Get your head out of your ass, get the hell out of my office, your session is up, get a million dollars, pay it off in a month, and, voila, you're done. By the way, this appointment will cost you $250, which also plays for cleaning the carpet in which your muddy feet stained, you selfish snob." McLean pulled out his wallet, and handed over the cash to Courtney, "I'm out of here." He stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut tight, and glared at Chef. "Come on, let's go back to my place, we need to get a million dollars." "We?" Chef chuckled, "You need to. I've got to go home to mah grandson. You're screwed, dude." "What?" Chris replied, "You can't just leave me out here, alone. I need a million dollars within a month, or I'm going to jail." Chef replied, furiously. "You also owe me a my paycheck, but I haven't seen that thing since that filmlot season!" McLean sighed, severely depressed about his situation. "I'm going to go home to my condo, have a glass of wine, take a nice hot bath, and think things through. Y'know, Chef Hatchet, I always thought we were buddies." He walked out of the building, as melancholy ran through his body, and walked over to his car. Unlocking it with his key, he slammed the door shut, and leaned forward on the steering wheel, sad. "Fuck my life..." Moving his head up, he stared outside, and eventually turned on the engine, pushed his feet on the accelerator, and floored it out of the parking lot, making his way onto the road, bitterly. "Yeah, right, one million dollars. How? Why? What did I do to deserve this? I only put teens in danger for like, eight, nine, ten seasons or so? They loved it, I could tell. Ugh, Fresh TV, you're dead in my mind... Just fucking dead! Ugh!" Chris McLean was very stressed out, and could barely keep focus on the road. Luckily, his condo wasn't too far from the area, so he wasn't going to be on the road for that long. As he looked out the window while driving, he witnissed as two rivalling gang members begun throwing fists at eachother. This caught his interest, in which he slowed down, as he reached the traffic lights, which was red at the current time. He watched more intentively, as the gang member in green clothing through his fist torwards the other one's jaw, which caused several teeth to come flying out. He cried out in pain, only for the other one to pull out a gun, and aim it at his head. This left McLean shocked, and he hoped no one saw him. The green gang member said, "West Coast, motherfucker." However, this voice sounded quite familiar, but, he just couldn't recognize who it was. He eventually pulled the trigger, and chunks of the man's brain came flying out through the other end, as the bullet was dislodged, just barely coming through the other side. Making sure no one saw him, the gang member turned around, only to see McLean who was staring at him. "Crap," Chris murmered to himself, as he pushed his foot hard on the pedal, accelerating at high speeds, as another bullet smashed through his window, slightly missing him. He immediately tuend down the street, and pulled into his driveway, leaving the car. "I, ugh, need a drink." He walked upstairs, and went to room two, which was the apartment he had rented, unlocked the door, went inside, and flopped on the couch, miserably. He had a task, in which he couldn't complete, and no one could help him, no one, not at all. Suicidal thoughts ran down his mind, but, he knew he couldn't bring himself to do that, but, he knew he'd be jailed. What were his options? Rob a bank? Yeah, right, he knew that wasn't an option either. Getting off the coach, he walked into the kitchen, and grabbed an already opened bottle of champagne, pouring it into a glass, and gulped it down in one go. He wanted more. Pouring another cup, he skulled it down again, until eventually, he upchucked it all, across his fine, marble counter. "Fuck." His day was ruined, yet again. "I need a towel, god damn it. All because of a stupid show..." Truthfully, it was all because of his lousyness, and, inability to check his mail, but, like usual, he was in denial. He walked into his study, as he knew he left a towel there, and sitting by the computer was a piece of paper. Lifting it up, he recognized it. He wrote it years ago, a bit after the break between Island and Action, once he thought there would be no season after it. It listed his skills, experience, history, grades, college, and all that other stuff. "My resume, ah, I remember that." He smiled, "Well, buddy, tomorrow, you're going to do me some good." He exited the room, flicking off the light switch, went to his bedroom, and flopped on the bed, completely disregarding cleaning up his vomit in the kitchen. Almost immediately, had he fallen asleep. Trivia *The title of the fanfiction itself, is a reference to the popular gaming franchise, Grand Theft Auto. *The idea of the fanfiction was thought, upon playing GTA V.